Still, there was an unease that gnawed at me.
Why was he risking so much?
Was the dog his?
Was this a usual thing or something desperate?
I felt trapped between suspicion and sympathy, the kind that doesn’t resolve easily.
My life here is one of routine: work days blur between deadlines and emails, nights spent unwinding on my balcony, watching the neighborhood settle.
I barely know my neighbors beyond polite nods.
The landlord rarely shows up, and when he does, it’s only to enforce rent or fix something quickly, never to check on who lives here or how.
That distance leaves many stories unseen.
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